


Eyes are the Window to the Soul

by apprehensionatthegala



Category: Coraline (2009), Coraline - Neil Gaiman, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, More like non-graphic blood mention, Non-Graphic Violence, Not really the Other Mother, Sherlock is emotionally contsipated, Suicide mention, The Other World, but the Other John, which leads him to do things he shouldn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 03:52:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1372888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apprehensionatthegala/pseuds/apprehensionatthegala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a prompt by syupon.tumblr.com:<br/>"Shortly after John’s wedding, Sherlock finds a doll that looks remarkably like him. The little door that’s been always locked in the living room suddenly opens and Sherlock is greeted by his Other-John. Other-John, who’s by his side, praises him and tells him he loves him. It’s all fine and dandy until Other-John wants to sew buttons onto Sherlock’s eyes...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What Happened First

Sherlock left the wedding early. He just couldn't bear the look in John's eyes- like he had lost something he could never get back, but that was wishful thinking. He told himself this over and over in the cab home, as if repeating would take the pain away. It didn't. At the flat, he noticed something different immediately. John's absence? No, this was something more sinister, like someone had come and moved the furniture, then put it back but just a few centimeters off center. Slowly, cautiously tiptoeing though the rooms, he noticed nothing wrong except the vague feeling that something was inhabiting his flat. When he reached John's old bedroom, he paused with his hand on the doorknob. Not out of respect or shame, but because the doorknob was about twenty degrees too cold. He opened the door carefully and scanned the room. He had never been inside John's bedroom before, so he wasn't sure what was normal. It was mostly cleared out but for some furniture, but on the bed were two small humanoid objects. Nearing the bed, Sherlock could see that they were dolls. One was about eight inches tall, wearing a tiny, cream coloured cable knit jumper and dark denim trousers. Silver and yellow yarn made its head a mop of hair, and its buttons for eyes were dark green and glinted grey in the light. The other was an inch taller, and wore a small tailored suit and a charcoal coloured wool coat. Its hair was black yarn and its eyes were pale blue. Sherlock had no idea how they got there.

“I'm too old for toys.” He muttered aloud. But that night he slept with the dolls close to him, and they seemed to ease the loneliness just a bit.

 

* * *

 

 

There was a door in the living room. It had always been there, always locked, never commented upon. It simply was. But now Sherlock felt drawn to it, like it held some innate secret that he never bothered to uncover. He'd have all the time in the world now, he supposed. The door was about 4 feet tall, smooth, time worn wood with a black knob that probably shone silver at some time. The door and the knob were cold to the touch, but felt as if they were alive just beneath the surface, if only he could _see_. Instead, he turned his attention to the lock. Skeleton key, most likely, and therefore difficult to pick. He was unsure where it would lead if he did manage to open it, but old flats like often had doors connecting them. Sherlock reasoned it led to Mrs Hudson's flat. So why was he so curious?

Returning to John's bedroom later that night, Sherlock lingered at the door before noticing the nightstand. It was small, so John should have taken it with him. Instead it was still here, with the top drawer cracked open. It was stuck- must have been like that for a while- but a little bit of shaking made it open fully. Near the back, almost out of sight, was a skeleton key. It was tarnished silver, much too old for its surroundings. Something in Sherlock's mind told him that it couldn't have been that ancient, but he ignored it in favor of rushing to the door in the living room. He briefly considered waiting until morning, but he just couldn't wait. He took a deep breath, inserted the key, and turned it. The hollow click of the lock mechanism was deafening in the silent room. Sherlock put the key in his pocket and opened the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock can't believe his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I just want to say thank you for all your support! I woke up this morning to two reviews and 21 kudos. It means a lot to me that people read and enjoy my writing. If you have (constructive) criticism, please leave it in the comments or send to my tumblr- apprehensionatthegala.tumblr.com.

The first thing Sherlock noticed was that the tunnel was too long. He'd had to crawl, as the space was four feet tall compared to his six foot frame. Even taking the reduced speed into account, he'd traveled for at least a full minute. Before much longer, he bumped into another door. He forced it open, spitting cobwebs out of his mouth and standing up, groaning at his stiff knees.

Sherlock had stepped into 221B. He exited on the same side of the fireplace, through seemingly the same door. Was it possible that it just circled through the walls? No, he didn't feel any turns. It had been a straight path all the way to the end. He straightened up and stretched before fully taking in his surroundings. It didn't take long to determine that this was not the 221B he had left. It was difficult to pinpoint exactly what it was. Nothing was visibly different; it was more of a feeling. It was brighter, and warmer, and felt more like a home. He felt surrounded by comfort and warmth and for the first time since his return, Sherlock didn't feel that incessant loneliness at the back of his mind. There was the faint sound of a pan sizzling and someone humming to his right, and he turned into the kitchen.

The person at the stove had their back to Sherlock. Based on their figure, Sherlock could conclude that it was likely a man. He was wearing a warm wheat coloured jumper and dark jeans, and he had short blonde hair touched with grey. He was flipping something in a pan and softly humming an unidentifiable tune. He turned around and smiled, and Sherlock's jaw went slack. The stranger's eyes were dark green buttons.

“Oh! I'm so glad you finally came! I've been waiting for you, Sherlock.”

“John?” Sherlock approached him, doubting his eyes. The button eyes shone back at him, full of adoration.

“Don't be silly. I'm your Other John.” He giggled at Sherlock's confused expression. “It's the buttons, isn't it? Do you like them? I find that this colour shines the brightest.” The Other John turned back around. “Supper's almost done. Could you put the kettle on?”

Sherlock was astounded by this person and desperately wanted to examine him, but for now, he just strode to the sink to fill the kettle. He looks like John, except for the eyes, and he sounds like John, but maybe there was a note of something else in his voice that the real John never had. The real John didn't cook either. The silence between them was deafening until the Other John spoke again.

“I made chicken with curry, if that's all right. I know it's your favourite.”

Sherlock jumped with surprise. “Not take-out? That's what we usually do.”

“That's what you and the other-other John do, but here, I cook. I'll admit, I haven't in some time, but I hope you'll eat it. Sit down.”

 

* * *

 

“I can't believe you made this! It's amazing!” Sherlock was eating far more than he was used to, but it was worth it.

“Thank you. So how have you been?”

“Uneventful. The wedding was the most exciting thing that's happened for a long time. But I don't want to talk about that.”

“Oh, tell me. How was it? It must have broken your heart to see that John leave you like that.” The Other John's voice dripped sympathy. “But that's why I'm here. You don't need to be lonely with me.”

Sherlock should have seen that it was too over the top, too perfect, but all he could think about was John, sitting with him, almost like a date. He'd always thought dates were mundane at best, but with John it was enjoyable. This John almost seemed to love him- no, don't think about that. He can't love you, Sherlock. The ever present voice of doubt poked and prodded at his thoughts, turning them bitter with the slightest touch.

“John, er, Other John-”

“Just call me John.”

“Okay, John,” Sherlock felt the name on his tongue, thinking it should have felt wrong to call this person John, but oddly enough, it didn't. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?"

"I am me. I'm doing this because I love you. You tell yourself that you don't deserve to be loved, that it only weighs you down, but look at how happy you are."

 _Yes_ , Sherlock reasoned, _that does make sense._

 

* * *

 

“I can't stay tonight.”

“Will you come back tomorrow?”

“How could I not?”

The Other John stood on his tiptoes and lightly kissed Sherlock's lips before he ducked through the tunnel again. That night, Sherlock lay in bed feeling the ghost of John's lips and wondering just when it all went wrong.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I'm really bad at writing romantic dialogue. I don't really know what one does on a date. I've only been on like two.


	3. Before it Falls Apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I changed the rating and added a tag because this chapter is kind of NSFW-ish. I chickened out of writing the actual naughty bits though, so it's just implied. Things are really getting good here, guys. 
> 
> Also, canthi is the plural of canthus, which is the technical name for each corner of your eye.

Sherlock woke up the next morning feeling empty. The past few months had been difficult; he'd gone from having no one for the better part of two years, then when he'd come back from the dead, it just hadn't been the same. John had Mary, and then they'd gotten married and he simply hadn't had time for Sherlock. So was it really all that wrong to spend his time with an imitation, if it helped to ease the pain of rejection? The John of this world had chosen Mary, but the Other John chose Sherlock. The Other John _loved_ him. He still hadn't figured out what the Other World was or how it managed to exist, but even if he had imagined it, it was fine. It was all fine.

The door was locked when he checked it. That couldn't be right, he hadn't locked it again last night.

“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock called while hurrying down the stairs.

“Sherlock, you don't need to shout. What is it?”

“The little door in the sitting room. Where does it lead to?”

“Oh, nowhere, dear. There used to be a bomb shelter next door, during World War Two. People could get to it fast if it was connected to the flat, but of course now it's just Speedy's. It was bricked up years ago. I might still have the key around here.”

“Is this it?” Sherlock took the key from his pocket.

“Yes, that's the one. Did you want to see what's behind it?”

He furrowed his brows. “No, just wondering.”

Returning up the stairs, he tried the key, but found that it really  _was_ bricked up. Sherlock's breath stopped when he saw the red brick covering the door to his perfect world. He stared at it for a long moment, then stood up. _Well_ , he thought, _that's that_.

For the first time in weeks, Sherlock left the flat of his own accord. Strolling nonchalantly into Scotland Yard, he quickly found Lestrade standing by his desk.

“Sorry. Nothing interesting for a while. There's been one murder, but we can handle it.” Lestrade looked around furtively and dropped his voice. “Are you alright? I know you and John...” He trailed off uncertainly. “Well.”

“I'm fine. Perfectly fine. Fine. Fine!”

“Well, anything you say four times must be true.”

“Do shut up. He's happy, and I'm not going to ruin that.”

“Yeah, but are you happy?”

Sherlock decided not to grace that with an answer.

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, Sherlock was back at Baker Street with a bag of eyes (Molly luckily had some extra) to experiment on. He knew just what he needed to do. He found a sewing kit in a closet and brought it to the kitchen table. Opening it, he took out a spool of black thread, a large, sharpened needle and a black sew-through button. The eyes still had the eyelids and a patch of skin and muscle surrounding them, so it was easy enough to thread the needle in and out of the flesh, firmly attaching the button to the eyelid. No, it protruded too far; the Other John's buttons were neatly flush with his face. He took the next eye and held it to the light. How could you see if you had buttons for eyes? He pried the eyeball from the surrounding tissue and selected a larger wooden shank button this time. He sewed a web of thread around the eyelids, pulling it taut at the canthi to make a rounder shape. The threads met at a point in the middle, and Sherlock used this intersection to attach the shank of the button. No, that wasn't right either. It was too floppy with only one point of connection and that wasn't what Other John's buttons looked like at all. Those were the only buttons he had, so he refrigerated the remainder of the eyes. He'd go to a craft store tomorrow.

Slamming the scalpel onto the table, Sherlock felt like screaming. All day, he couldn't stop thinking about the little door and the Other World and the Other John. He stalked over to the door and kicked it expecting to inflict some damage on the wood at best. Instead, the sound reverberated hollowly, and Sherlock dropped to his knees to try the key again. The door was flung open, and he started down the dark hallway illuminated by a light at the end of the tunnel.

“I was wondering when you'd come back. Are you hungry? I made a fry-up for lunch.” The Other John was waiting in his chair, reading a book, but stood up and walked to the kitchen when he saw Sherlock.

“Mm. I actually didn't eat breakfast this morning.” Sherlock's stomach growled in agreement.

“You should take better care of yourself, love.” The Other John set a plate on the table and kissed Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock preened at the attention. Affection had always distracted him, which was why he avoided it when he could. When he was distracted, he missed things, like the Other John's malice-filled smile as he turned around.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock had taken to spending more and more of his time in the Other World. The real world (but was this not real as it needed to be?) was full of heartbreak and loss, but here, even being in the same room with a John who loved him was enough to make him forget that John had left and-

No. Don't even think about it.

The Other John was sitting on the couch, and Sherlock had just finished slicing a human liver into thin slices to test the effects of poison. Other Molly had a seemingly endless supply of body parts and corpses to experiment on, and labs that were open to him alone at all hours. Other Lestrade had more cases than he knew what to do with, but what need did Sherlock have for cases? Other John provided all the entertainment he wanted.

“So there's nothing out there but Baker Street, the hospital, and Scotland Yard?” Sherlock had gone for a walk yesterday but had ended up right back at the flat within ten minutes. He strode over to sit next to Other John just for the proximity.

“Yep. That's all you've needed, but I can create more if you like.”

“It's wonderful. Did you create this world?”

“I made it just for you, honeybee.” Other John even knew about Sherlock's love of bees. “You really love it here, don't you?”

“Of course I do.”

“I can give you everything you could ever want.” Other John's voice was achingly tender, and he leaned over to capture Sherlock's lips with his own. Their lips moved in tandem for a few long moments before turning deeper, hungrier. Other John moved his hand to the back of Sherlock's neck and Sherlock grasped his waist. His tongue flicked at Other John's lips and teeth and tongue, and soon enough, Sherlock was straddling his hips. John's mouth moved up, tracing the line of his throat, and he lightly sucked the skin behind his ear.

“I can give you everything he never would. Everything you've dreamed about, alone in the dark.” John whispered low and dark, punctuating his words by nibbling Sherlock's earlobe and rolling his hips, making them both gasp. “Do you want this?” He moved his mouth back to swallow Sherlock's groans.

“God yes.”

 

* * *

 

“Ah, John, do that again.”

“Christ, Sherlock, you're so _good_.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock woke up alone again, not knowing why he felt so guilty.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, consent is important, even if you're an evil demon thing bent on eating Sherlock's soul.
> 
> I just have so many ideas running around in my mind that I have no idea how to carry out what's happening next. I'll try to keep the updates quick, though. I don't usually update this fast, but something about this AU really draws me in.


	4. What is to come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's not the only one with desires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is short. It's sort of an interlude because I just wanted to post something. Next one will be longer.

“ _This is Sherlock Holmes. I'm busy and can't come to the phone right now, so leave a message. Don't be boring.”_

“Sherlock, when is this case going to be over? John's spending so much of his time with you, I'm worried he's going to get hurt. Tell him to call me.”

 

* * *

 

 

“ _This is Sherlock Holmes. I'm busy and can't come to the phone right now, so leave a message. Don't be boring.”_

“Seriously, do either of you ever answer your phone? Call me back already.”

 

* * *

 

 

“ _This is Sherlock Holmes. I'm busy and can't come to the phone right now, so leave a message. Don't be boring.”_

“It's been weeks. I've been to your flat, Mrs Hudson says you've been unusually quiet since the wedding. I didn't go upstairs, but I wish you would call me back.”

 

* * *

 

 

“ _This is Sherlock Holmes. I'm busy and can't come to the phone right now, so leave a message. Don't be boring.”_

“I went to your flat. It's dusty. You haven't been there for weeks, have you? Call me back. No one knows where you are.”

 

* * *

 

 

“ _This is Sherlock Holmes. I'm busy and can't come to the phone right now, so leave a message. Don't be boring.”_

“I have a missed call from John. It rang for less than a second then stopped, and he won't call back. I've reported you both missing to the police.”

 

* * *

 

“ _You've reached the voice-mail of John Watson. I can't get to my phone right now, but I'll call you back as soon as I can.”_

“It's him, isn't it? You're in love with Sherlock and you've run away. I don't care if you're leaving me, just don't ignore me like this. Please.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's supposed to be Mary leaving the voicemails, though she's not going to be a character in the story.


	5. What Have I Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time has come for a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is intense. It's also really long (well, by my standards) to make up for yesterday's update.
> 
> This one's for you Syupon. (Well, the whole fic is for you, but I wrote this chapter specifically with you in mind)
> 
> Trigger warnings for violence/blood and suicide.

“You could stay here forever, if you want.” Other John smiled over breakfast one day.

Sherlock nearly choked on his toast. “Really?"

“You can keep visiting as long as you like, but if you decide to stay, you wouldn't need to wake up alone anymore.”

Sherlock was silent, contemplative.

“I know what you're thinking, but don't worry. The people from the other world wouldn't miss you. They don't love you like I do.”

Sherlock still said nothing. Other John had gotten up and made his way to Sherlock's chair; he gripped the back and whispered in his ear, oddly serpentine in nature.

“Molly would be able to do her job better without you distracting her. Lestrade doesn't really need you to help with cases, he's just indulging you- and besides, you're just in it for the game. And John. Well. You already know that he left you for Mary. He never loved you.”

He leaned down and gently kissed Sherlock's jaw.

“You wouldn't say no to me, would you?”

Sherlock's hands were steepled in his thinking pose, elbows to either side of his plate. Other John abruptly straightened his back and clapped his hands together.

“There's just one tiny little thing I would need to do. So insignificant, really, I don't know why I bother bringing it up.” Other John walked to the drawer next to the sink and took out a small box. He set it in front of Sherlock, simultaneously taking his plate, and pulled the ribbon and lid off it with a flourish.

Buttons. The box contained two buttons and a spool of thread and a needle, and oh god, was this how it all worked?

Other John sat in a chair perpendicular to Sherlock's and leaned in close. He picked up a button and held it to Sherlock's eye. The light filtered in through the four holes, distorting his vision. “Black would look good on you. Dark blue, maybe?” Out of the corner of his free eye, Sherlock saw the button on the table change colour. “You could choose a steel blue or gunmetal grey."

Next, Other John picked up the needle. “So sharp, you won't feel a thing.” He tapped the needle against the side of his own button eyes. “What do you say? Will you stay with me?” He started to wrap his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, but he stood up suddenly.

“I just need some time to think. I'm going to go for a walk.”

“Okay. But you'll always come back.” Other John's eyes had no hint of mirth anymore, but glinted with something Sherlock didn't want to understand. He hurried out the door hearing the words replay in his head over and over intermingling with his own.

 

_He never loved you._

_You won't feel a thing._

_You know what needles feel like anyway, don't you?_

_You'll always come back._

_You can't say no to me._

 

* * *

 

In minutes, he made it to St Bartholomew’s Hospital. The door handle was icy, and burned Sherlock's hands. He had grabbed his coat in his hurry out of the flat, and fumbled in the pocket for his gloves. They made the cold a bit more bearable. He pushed open the doors and stopped in his tracks. The lights were extremely bright, and it was completely devoid of all life, giving the large building a clinical feeling. He meticulously ran through and inspected each room, but found nothing until he reached the utility closet at the back of the building. Inside was the hollow skin of Molly Hooper- fabric turned rough having lost its glamour, and button eyes unseeing and dead. She (it?) hung on a clothes hanger from a hook on the ceiling. Sherlock tried to bring himself to feel sad, but couldn't. She was just another part of this twisted world.

The wallpaper peeled behind him as he walked out of the hospital.

 

* * *

 

Next was Scotland Yard. The handle was red hot this time, and he pushed the door open with his shoulder instead. Just like Bart's, the building was totally empty, but the lights were low and flickering. A trail of papers, torn and burnt around the edges, littered the hallway almost like a path leading him somewhere. Sherlock looked through every room, just like at the hospital. Nothing even suggested that anything living had spent time here. He picked up one of the papers from the floor and held it to a dying lamp. They were newspaper clippings, and his blood chilled when he saw what the headlines said.

 

_Hero of the Reichenbach._

_Boffin Sherlock Solves Another._

_Hero 'Tec Cracks Unsolvable Case._

Newspapers from his rise to fame quickly turned to newspapers from his fall from glory.

_Crime of the Century?_

_Sherlock's a Fake!_

_Suicide of Fake Genius_

 

He was so engrossed in reading the papers that he almost didn't notice the door the trail disappeared behind. He pushed open the door and recoiled in disgust. The skin-suit of Lestrade slowly swung from a hook in the centre of the room. Its tie was tied tightly around its neck, and the dull fabric body was leaking sawdust from its mouth. Upon further inspection, its mouth appeared to be sewn loosely shut. Sherlock took a step back and ran from the room. Behind him, wallpaper flaked off the walls.

 

* * *

 

“Welcome back, Sherlock.” The Other John's features had distorted and warped, giving him strangely elongated limbs and a thin, gaunt face. “Have you made a decision yet?”

“What have you done to the people?”

“They were hardly going to help matters. I thought their demise would amuse you. Did you like the touch with the newspaper?”

“I'm keeping my eyes. I want to go back to my world.” Sherlock stood his ground.

“Oh, that won't do at all.” Other John unfolded himself from the couch. He reached to the mantle to grab a small snow-globe and tossed it to Sherlock. “Take a look, but don't drop it.”

Sherlock squinted to look inside the ball of glass. There were white specks swirling like a blizzard, and the outside was covered with dust. He wiped the outside clean, and a small figure pounded the glass at him.

“John!” Sherlock looked up to glare at the Other John. “You kidnapped him to coerce me.”

“I hardly kidnapped him. You're not the only one with desires, you know. He's been coming to me for a while. Of course, I was dressed as you, but the devil is in the details.”

The John in the snow-globe hung his head and dragged his fists down the glass.

“I could let you be with him again. If...” The Other John trailed off pointedly.

“If I let you sew buttons into my eyes.”

“So what'll it be? Either I kill your John, or you get a matching pair.”

Sherlock spared no glance to the snow-globe, where John was pounding frantically on the glass and shaking his head.

“Deal.”

“Good boy.” The Other John lifted the globe from his hands and placed it back on the mantle. He frowned, then covered it with a scrap of fabric. “We don't need him seeing this. Sit down, love.” There was no endearment in his voice.

 

* * *

 

In the next hours, John could not see what was being done to Sherlock. But he could hear everything: Sherlock's every word, his choked pleas, the silence when he was in too much pain to speak, broken only by strangled cries and hoarse breaths.

The silence was when John didn't know if he was still alive.

 

* * *

 

The Other John dragged Sherlock to the mirror at the end of the hall.

“Do you like it? I went with black, but when you resist like that, you don't get a choice.” It held Sherlock's head up, forcing him to look himself in the eye. “I don't know if you can even see anymore.”

Sherlock breath was ragged and shallow. “You said...” He winced at the effort required to speak. “You said that you would let him go if I did this.”

“Is that what you thought? You should have been more specific. I said you could be with him if you did this. Well, I don't go back on a deal.” He threw Sherlock into the mirror. He didn't have time to brace for the impact, but he didn't need to. Sherlock flew straight through the glass and into a dimly lit, concrete room. There was a mattress on a wire frame in the corner, and the figure on it sprang up when Sherlock landed.

“Sherlock, Sherlock, it's okay, I heard everything.” John encircled Sherlock's shaking body and tilted his head so he could look at him. “Oh, my god.” Dried blood and tears formed rivers down his cheeks. The bleeding hadn't stopped, and John could only imagine the pain he was in.

“Sherlock, what have you done?”

 

* * *

 

For the first time in weeks, neither of them woke up feeling alone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I pretty much laughed maniacally every few sentences out of sheer power. I eagerly await comments, people.
> 
> I was originally going to just have Sherlock agree to the buttons straight away, but I thought nothing more would be able to happen. Now I'm getting ideas for how that could work, though, so maybe I'll post a oneshot alternate ending. And besides, this is more painful. Maybe.


	6. The Beginning of the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock proposes a deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOOOOO I TOLD YOU I'D UPDATE TODAY.

John knew he wouldn't be able to sleep, so he didn't bother trying. He instead lay awake with Sherlock's unmoving form in his arms. Blood smeared on John's shirt, but he didn't care.

He knew he loved Sherlock. That was what had drawn him to this world- the promise of requited feelings. He had told Mary they were on a case, which wasn't completely a lie. He'd even tried to call her when it went downhill, but it was immediately disconnected. He never would have accepted the Other Sherlock's offer of forever, but Sherlock accepted it, for John. Did he consider it without the threat? Did he think about saying yes to forever with an imitation of him, thinking that John and Mrs Hudson and Molly and everyone wouldn't miss him? Morning appeared to shine through a dirty window, but time moved differently here. It was all manufactured by the thing that tried to steal their hearts.

“Sherlock. Hey, wake up.” John gently nudged his arm where it was wrapped around John's waist.

“Ngh.” Sherlock winced, then regretted it as the expression pulled at the stitches.

“Are you feeling okay? The bleeding stopped while you were sleeping, but you should try not to move your face.”

“I think so. It still hurts, but not as much.” He paused. “Am I going to be blind?”

“I don't know. As soon as we're out, I'm taking you to hospital.”

“What makes you think we're getting out of here? He's won. I should have known he wouldn't just let us out. It's all my fault-”

“Sherlock, stop that. We are getting out. He hasn't won me yet, so we still have a chance.” John took Sherlock's face in his hands and lightly stroked his cheek. “I will make sure we get out.” John ran his thumb softly over Sherlock's bottom lip and kissed him, barely brushing their lips together. Sherlock stiffened, and John pulled back, loosening his grip on his face. “What's wrong?”

“It's wrong, it's all wrong! You don't love me, you _can't_ love me. He told me he loved me, but he lied, and _you_ don't love me.” Sherlock simultaneously pulled his body away from John and groped his face with one hand, feeling for buttons.

“Sherlock,” John's voice was calm and collected. “I think you hit your head when you fell. You're not thinking straight. I need you to take a deep breath and calm down, alright? See, no buttons.” He guided Sherlock's hand to his closed eyes, and the light touch was shaky. “It's me.”

Tears cut streaks through the dried blood on Sherlock's cheek. His hands were still shaking as he reached up to run his fingers around the buttons sewn tightly into his face. John was afraid he'd try to rip out the stitches, but he just stroked the smooth wooden buttons, rubbing off rust colored flakes.

“Rise and shine, boys! I can't have any fun with you stuck in here.” The Other John's voice was more distorted now, and it sounded like multiple voices layered together. The dungeon around then abruptly changed to the kitchen. “Maybe I could sew buttons in other places. You liked them _so_ much on me.”

“You stay away from him!” John took a protective step in front of Sherlock, who had stopped rubbing his buttons and was eerily blank-faced.

“So protective.” The Other John's eyebrows arched. “Maybe I chose the wrong man to threaten.”

Sherlock finally spoke up. “Can I win my eyes back?”

“You want me to put them back into your head? Surely you know that's not how it works.”

“Sherlock-”

“No, but they mean something or you wouldn't have taken them. You won't let me leave without them, I'm sure.”

“You said win. Are you proposing a game?” The Other John had turned around to hide his pensive expression.

“If that's what it will take. What about a finding game? I find my eyes, and you let us go free.” He tentatively stood up. “Is it a deal?”

Other John's fingers curled and uncurled on the counter-top. John's gaze flickered uncertainly between the two of them.

“Deal. You will find one eye in each of the places I've made for you. And I'll be keeping John, if you don't mind.” His voice was calm in an unsettling way, and he walked over to stand behind John.

“Do I get a hint?”

“You've already gotten one. There's one eye in each of the places I've made just for you. You will find both eyes in the time I give you, or I will keep you and John here forever.” His clawed hand curled around the back of John's neck and John shivered. “Tick tock, Sherlock. You'd better get to it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *tries to write subtle parallels between Other John and Moriarty*
> 
> *fails*


	7. How to Win the Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If it weren't for John, Sherlock would have nothing to fight for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeyy, friends. So I know I said I'd update last weekend, but I sort of lied. I meant to write this chapter sooner, but it was a rough week. But it's extra long! I was going to split it in half, but I figured I owe you this much. Please note that I don't have a beta, so I'm noticing stupid mistakes when I re-read these chapters. If you notice mistakes, please point them out to me if you feel comfortable doing so! I won't be offended, I just want this to be the best it can be. There are only a couple chapters left, so it will be wrapping up soon. Thank you so much for sticking with me with this story.

Sherlock stood outside the flat, attempting to get his bearings. The pain in his eyes had faded to a dull throbbing unless he moved his face, which he avoided doing. Space was different here; there was almost no distance between 221B, Bart's, and the Yard. He remembered the path leading to and from each location and had stored the map carefully in his mind palace. He counted the steps and walked slowly along the buildings, feeling for landmarks to guide him. Before long, he reached the hospital, feeling the wrought iron fence, now gnarled and twisted, and brick dust flaked away under his fingertips. He fumbled for the door knob and opened it, and a rush of cold air laced with the stench of decomposition hit his face. He reeled back from the suddenness of it, then steeled himself and walked through the door. He didn't trip over anything, so the floor was clear, but where were the bodies? Cautiously, he reached for the walls, and before long, his fingers hit a decomposing corpse. It was held to the wall by hand-like growths protruding from the wall. Sherlock estimated that it was ten to fifteen days old; black putrefaction had set in. He wiped his hand on his trousers and kept walking down the hallway, not knowing what he was looking for.

The hallway seemed longer than it had been before. The thought chilled Sherlock, as it meant that either his perception was off without his sight, or the building was truly different, distorted along with the rest of the world. The end of the corridor nearly hit him in the face as soon as he thought this, and he fumbled with the doorknob. If the air was cold in the corridor, it was sub-zero in whatever room this was. Immediately, he was aware of a breathy hissing noise from somewhere to the left. It was interspersed with rapid clicks like that of an insect, but it had a vaguely human quality. And it was getting closer.

The thing tackled Sherlock with barely any warning. It felt humanoid, and its skin was rough and loose, like burlap. Its hair was long, matted yarn and brushed Sherlock's face as it pinned his hands to the floor and leaned over him, snapping its jaws. Sherlock was able to get his leg in between him and the thing and kick it off him. He heard a thump and a whimper when it hit the wall. He quickly stood up and turned in a circle, not that it would help in his condition. He backed up into a wheeled cart and fell backward, feeling something soft hit his back. Two arms wrapped themselves around his torso, and he screamed and thrashed to get free, but the arms held fast. He could hear the burlap creature scurrying toward him, and he scrabbled with his right hand on the cart, finding scalpels and other autopsy supplies. Grabbing one, he stabbed the creature and torqued the blade, hitting soft flesh despite the fabric skin. It shrieked and clutched its face, reeling backward. Something caught Sherlock's eye then, and he momentarily stopped struggling. There was a bright blue light about where the creature's face would be. He reached out and grabbed its neck, the fabric stinging his hand oddly. With his other hand, he clawed at its face, grappling for the light, which turned out to be an eye. His fingers closed around the ball attached by a bit of yarn to its skull. The creature's shrieks increased in intensity and it wrapped its long fingers around his wrist. With one final tug, the eye came free and the screams abruptly stopped, still ringing in Sherlock's ears. The arms around his midsection turned to brittle stone that he easily crumbled in his grip. Brushing the stone dust off his jacket, he quickly retraced his steps out of the hospital, grateful for the warm, albeit windy, air of the outside.  
  


* * *

  
New Scotland Yard wasn't far from the hospital. Grass crunched under Sherlock's feet and scratched at his ankles. The door was stuck but not locked, and Sherlock braced his foot above the doorknob and kicked it in. The air was tense but silent, as if he was surrounded by people, staring at him but not speaking or even breathing.

“Freak.

Sherlock's head whipped to the left and he stopped walking, but the room was silent again. A scuffling sound to his right distracted him and he stood listening for a minute. He had broken out in a cold sweat with apprehension. He tentatively began walking forward again, not knowing what he was walking toward. He had just let his guard down when another vaguely familiar voice spoke from the right.

“Psychopath.”

His breathing quickened and his steps faltered, but he didn't stop moving.

“Weak.”

The insults came faster, louder now, straight from the mouths of those who knew him.

“Psycho!”

“Disappointing little brother.”

“You never did become a good man, Sherlock.”

“Ordinary Sherlock.”

“I said you would, you know. I told John you were a great man.”

“Your fault!”

“I waited and I waited, Sherlock. You let me down. You let John down.”

Sherlock was running now, stumbling but never falling. His breathing came is quick pants and sweat beaded on his forehead. The stitches in his eyes pulled with exertion. He crashed head-first into a door in front of him, causing him to wince and pull the stitches even more. His head rang and he fumbled for a knob, finally throwing the door open and slamming it behind him. The door completely blocked out the screamed insults.

Sherlock could feel a thick layer of paper on the floor rustling under his feet. He stopped, but something was slithering through the papers, not getting closer, but moving around what may have been the edge of the room. Sherlock followed the sound with his head, though he could not see it. Sherlock still had a scalpel from the hospital and he held it in front of him.

“You're not real. Whatever you are.”

“Oh, am I? I'm real enough to hurt you. Your cheeks are glistening.” The voice of Lestrade moved around the room, weaving from side to side and disorienting Sherlock. He reached up to feeling his cheeks and realized that they were, in fact, wet.

“You're just a puppet he made.” Sherlock adjusted his grip on the scalpel. The slithering stopped, and the voice came from directly beside his right ear.

“Not even that. Not anymore.” The grin was audible in the Other Lestrade's voice, and Sherlock lunged to the side with the blade slashing in the air, hoping that chance would let him connect. The blade stuck in the fabric of what felt like a hand, and Lestrade wrapped long fingers around Sherlock's fist, twisting the scalpel out of his grasp. Sherlock barely heard it fall, muffled as it was by the newspapers.

“Look at you. How can you expect to save him? You can't even save yourself.” The smug voice came from his left ear now, and cold arms wrapped themselves around Sherlock's neck. A forearm pressed against his throat and the pressure tightened. He struggled to draw breath and clawed at the rough restraint.

“Just give in. John was happy here with my imitation of you, but you just had to ruin that. It's your fault that this all is ha-” His words were cut off when Sherlock threw himself backward, knocking his assailant into the ground. The grip on his throat loosened and he wriggled free, straddling Lestrade's waist and wrapping his hands around his throat in retaliation. Inhuman shrieking filled his ears like a chorus of demons, and he throttled the rough fabric, tears streaming down his face again. His face was contorted with anger, but the pain only fueled his hate. Finally the body beneath his stopped screaming and coughed wetly, a light appearing before Sherlock's black vision. It rolled into the paper on the floor, and he grabbed it. As soon as his fingers closed around the orb, he felt Lestrade shudder and stop moving, turning to stone beneath him. Sherlock got up and leaned against the wall, tremors racking his body as he tried in vain to compose himself. After a while, he paced around the walls of the room, searching for the door, and it fell open with barely a touch. The voices had stopped their barrage of insults, but Sherlock didn't dare investigate the corridor around him. He just wanted to get to John.

 


	8. What We Have Left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At long last, an escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Look at us. We're close to the end now. Again, I'd like to say thank you for all your wonderful support and comments. This story is finally drawing to a close. Sorry for the wait, but things happened. Without further ado, the chapter!

_I know in time my heart will mend_   
_I don't care if I never see again_   
_Cut out my eyes_   
_And leave me blind_

 

* * *

 

Sherlock stumbled into the flat, trying not to think about the way the bricks sank under his hands and the wood tried to wrap itself around his wrists. He stopped in the doorway, listening for any sounds from up the stairs. There was none; it was completely silent. He wanted nothing more than to race up the stairs for John, but he took the steps slowly, one at a time. He winced when he stepped on the ninth step and it creaked, but nothing reacted upstairs. Reaching the top, he heard a scuffling noise like a chair being dragged across a carpet and a muffled whimpering. Following the sound, he found a person tied to a chair, gagged with a piece of fabric. He ripped off the gag with one hand while feeling the person's skin with the other.

“Jesus, Sherlock. I don't know how long I've been sitting here.” John's voice came from close to Sherlock's face.

“We've got to get out. I have my eyes, but if he's not here then we might not get another chance to leave.” Sherlock's voice was frantic.

“There's rope around my ankles and arms, I'm tied in really thoroughly. If you can get my hands I'll help with the rest.”

Sherlock slid his hands down John's shoulders and arms until he felt coarse rope. Even without his sight, his fingers were nimble and he quickly undid the knots. He was kneeling in front of John now, his head bent as he freed his ankles. John stood up and took Sherlock's hands in his, guiding him to the door in the wall.

“Why is it unlocked?” Sherlock's voice was tight.

“Who cares, I just want to get out of here.”

They crawled through the dusty brick tunnel in silence. Sherlock followed John, reaching out to feel his ankle every so often to make sure he was still there. The light from their world became visible to John before long, but with it, a pounding sound came from behind them. Someone was banging on the door. The sound suddenly stopped, and John and Sherlock both stopped as well to listen. Another noise came from behind them, like the susurrus of too many legs scuttling across concrete.

“Sherlock, run!” John had stood up and was crouching in the tunnel, running in the direction of the light. Sherlock tried to stand, but stumbled. John didn't notice, and Sherlock felt lost without him.

“John!” The Other John had taken hold of Sherlock's ankle and was pulling him back through the tunnel, which now dipped down in the middle. It caved in on itself, unraveling and forming a web of metal framework and barbs. John turned around and pitched forward into the web, just missing Sherlock's hand. Sherlock was holding on by his hands to a bit of metal high on the web, and the Other John was scurrying toward him. Sherlock was jolted loose from the vibrations on the web, and he fell before getting his shirt caught on a string of barbs. He quickly ripped open the buttons on his shirt and shrugged out of it, dropping lower on the web and scraping his back across the sharp metal. John had taken off his jumper and wrapped it around his hand to pry a bar loose from the web, and he palmed it experimentally before making his way to the web behind Other John and hitting him over the head with it. The Other John turned around and grabbed John by his shoulders, lifting him in the air, his feet kicking and flailing.

“Sherlock, what do I do?” John was panicking, and Sherlock was trying to climb up the web again, adrenaline rushing through their veins.

“The eyes, John, get his eyes!” Sherlock wasn't sure if that would help, but at this point, neither of them did. John grabbed the Other John's bony arm to haul himself closer, then firmly grasped the buttons on the front of his face. He ripped them toward him, and the wound began leaking thick, black, blood almost immediately. The Other John reeled back and made a sound that was a bellow and shriek at the same time, like many voices layered on top of one another. The buttons bubbled and began to melt in John's hand, and he threw them down in the white void beneath them. The web warped and strained after the lumps of plastic, elongating and unraveling in their wake.

“No! You have no idea what you've done!” The Other John clutched blindly and wildly at the webbing.

“We've won, and that's what matters. There is nothing more you can do to us!”

The Other John, now so distorted that he was not much more than melting clay and a brittle skeleton lost his handhold on the metal web and fell into the void with a shriek that seemed to ring in their ears after he was out of sight. Then, all was silent save for the heavy breathing of John and Sherlock, still clinging to the top of the web.

“Sherlock,” John spoke gently, quietly, “He's gone.”

“We should get out of here.” Sherlock's voice was shaky and tense. The bars had rusted when their creator fell, and they creaked uncomfortably as they climbed.

Sherlock immediately collapsed on the floor of 221B, exhausted. John knelt on his hands and knees, limbs shaking and coughs racking his body. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and swore when it came away bloody. 

“Sherlock?” John glanced over to the taller man's nearly unmoving form. His bare back was in ribbons, cuts running the length of it. Some were no more than shallow scratches, but many looked as if they cut straight to the bone, and the edges were jagged. Both their hands were scratched and torn from climbing the barbed web, but John hadn't seen Sherlock fall. “Oh, my god, we have to get you to a hospital.” There was an emergency phone in the silverware drawer, there always had been, and John retrieved it and called 999. Sherlock remained unresponsive in the ambulance, his breathing still labored. John rode along, hiding his own minor injuries. The paramedics thankfully didn't ask questions about the buttons.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, we're losing you.”

 

* * *

 

John sat by Sherlock's hospital bedside, reading a spy novel while he waited for Sherlock to wake up. His back and hands had been bandaged and rebandaged several times in the two days they'd been at the hospital, and John's own hands were wrapped in gauze as well. His eyes were the worst of his injuries. They had been damaged beyond repair, and Sherlock's upper face was wrapped in bandages most of the time. Right now, Sherlock was asleep after his eye surgery. They had replaced his eyes with white acrylic prosthetics, but he'd never see again. He would have scars from the thread for a while, maybe forever, a constant reminder of what he'd gone through.

“What happened to him? I've never seen anything like it.” A doctor had tried to ask before the surgery.

“He got involved with the wrong person.” John replied grimly, and that was that.

 

* * *

 

Late on the third night there, Sherlock awoke for the first time since their arrival. John had just begun to nod off when Sherlock stirred in his bed, reaching his hands out, feeling for something to hold. His fingers ghosted over John's knuckles and gripped them tightly as if they were his last line to reality. John started awake instantly.

“Hey. How do you feel?” John spoke barely above a whisper. Sherlock just squeezed his hand tighter on John's.

“Terrible. What happened?” Sherlock's voice was hoarse.

“You collapsed as soon as we escaped the web. Your back was pretty cut up, and I called an ambulance. It's been three days since then.”

“You know what I mean.”

John hesitated. “They had to replace your damaged eyes with ocular implants. You'll never see again.”

Sherlock nodded weakly but soberly. “When can we leave?”

“They'll want to keep you for observation another day, but then we'll go home.” John clasped his hands around Sherlock's, and Sherlock rubbed the pad of his thumb against his knuckles fondly. “We'll go together.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Susurrus is my favorite word. Of all time. The song lyrics are from the song Blind by Hurts [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UKTSHaiaw4o].


	9. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because all they really needed was themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shuffles forward and throws this sad excuse for a chapter at you before scurrying away and hiding*
> 
> Wow. It's been like 5 months. It's not entirely my fault, though... My computer broke and I couldn't access the half chapter I had written and I kept telling myself it would be easier to wait until I got a new computer than to start over... Maybe it's a bit my fault. Just... pretend this makes sense, okay? Like, Magnussen already happened, I guess?
> 
> Anyway. Thank you all for your continued support! I still can't believe my fic got as much attention as it did. I love and appreciate you all!

Epilogue

Three months later

 

It was four months since this had started, and three since it had ended. John had found out that the baby wasn't his, and that was the last straw. He and Mary divorced, and John moved back in with Sherlock. Sherlock refused to carry a cane, but wore blackout sunglasses to hide his colorless eyes. In the end, he didn't see the point of coloured prosthetics. It was taking time to adjust to being blind, but he was already adept at using his other senses. Crime scenes were especially difficult, but it was the only way to keep Sherlock from sulking. Every night was a danger night.

“Do you want me to describe things to you?” Sherlock nodded, tightly clutching John's sleeve with his thumb and forefinger.

“Yes.”

“There's a pool of blood on the floor, about a metre in diameter-”

“Litre and a half?”

“Looks about that, yeah.”

And so it went on. Sherlock and John muttering to each other, leaning close as if each other was a support to keep from falling. No one paid much mind. Usually.

 

* * *

 

It was just a dare. Someone suggested that one of the new interns go up to Sherlock Holmes and take off his sunglasses. A lot of people thought it was an ego thing – he was trying to be cool like some CSI nutcase. So Evan had walked up behind the man and nimbly grabbed the glasses while the others snickered from a distance. John was looking away, and Sherlock had no warning. He did not cry out. He did not attempt to cover his eyes. He simply looked down at where he judged the thief to be (about three centimetres above his target) and widened his eyes, making every scar obvious.

“Well?” Sherlock held his hand out expectantly. “You have something that belongs to me.”

Evan could only stare at the smooth white conformers in his skull and the small puncture scars around them. He dropped the glasses with a clatter and ran off.

“I'll get those, Sherlock.” John retrieved the glasses, which now had a crack in the left lens, and pressed them into Sherlock's palm.

“We'll be leaving now.” He put the glasses on and began to walk as briskly as he could toward the edge of the crime scene.

“Sherlock, wait!” John ran after him without sparing the other officers a glance.  
  


* * *

 

The door to 221B was ajar when John approached.

“Sherlock?” He called into the dimly lit foyer. Walking slowly up the stairs, he saw a light at the top of the steps.

“Sherlock? Are you here?” Sherlock was huddled in John's chair, his back to him. When John walked around to face him, he saw a small box on the table in front of him. Sherlock's glasses, the crack in the lens painfully apparent, were gripped tightly in his hand.

“John.” Sherlock's voice sounded broken and small.

“Sherlock, what's that?”

“Take it.”

John picked up the box and turned it over in his hands. A soft sound came from inside, like pieces of fabric rubbing together. The box itself was simple. Rectangular, wooden, it fit comfortably in both of his hands. “It's a puzzle box.”

Sherlock took the box from John and moved his fingers nimbly over it, finding a small depression in the side. He pressed it carefully, sliding two segments apart, then handed it back wordlessly. Inside were several small bags of white powder and sealed syringes.

“I haven't used any.”

John was silent for a moment, taking in the magnitude, the _trust_ of this action. He set the box down on the table again.

“I... Thank you. I'm glad you, um... did this.” John moved around the chair and knelt to face Sherlock, holding his hands between his own. “What those officers did today-”

“Doesn't bother me.”

“Sherlock, I know that it does. You can try and make yourself into this cold, logical, computer, but what we've been through?” John paused, “What we've been through proves that you're not. You don't have to be that man.”

“What we've been through is exactly why I have to be, John!” Sherlock stood abruptly, knocking his hands from John's grip. “When I have... _feelings_ for people, it all goes wrong. They use you against me. Moriarty, and Magnussen, and now you – the other you.” He stumbled trying to get into the open space of the sitting room, feeling up the arm of the chair.

“Sherlock, listen. Moriarty's dead, Magnussen is dead, and the other John is never coming back. I will always be here. I'm real, you feel that?” John carefully took Sherlock's hand and guided it to his face. His fingers skirted John's closed eyes, feather-light. “I'm the real me, the original.” John moved a bit closer, gently squeezing Sherlock's bicep to give him warning. Then John wrapped his arms around his chest. Sherlock hesitated a moment, frozen in anxiety, then he reciprocated the hug, folding his arms around John's shoulders somewhat awkwardly. Neither party could tell themselves this was just for the feeling of safety anymore. Neither man could convince themselves it was just the shared trauma. They didn't have to be anything, really. Themselves were all they needed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaaaayyy! *throws flower petals*
> 
> I thought of adding smut but then I was like nah. Let's keep the feelings raw. Also what is canon continuity.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Black Buttons and Dragonflies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1914336) by [le_criminel_consultation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/le_criminel_consultation/pseuds/le_criminel_consultation)




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